Dear Media, What if

What if you were black and got pulled over by the police and the cop said to you, “Why, hello. I am stopping you today because I noticed how well you drive” and you both made the front cover?

What if the guy that risks being fired every day giving out food to homeless people in Maryland because “somebody has to do it” made the front page?

 What if your Mom made the front cover because she survived cancer?

What if your Dad made the front page because he survived years of covert depression that he couldn’t talk about?

 What if my father-in-law made the front cover because he swam across the Han River in January to escape what was once his home, North Korea?

What if a military veteran made the front cover because he cried in uniform?

 And what about the grandmother who had to bury a child but didn’t forget she had another?

 What if you made the front page not because you knew that director, politician, or founder but because you earned it?

What if you made it because you had courage in spite of your fear?

 What if you made the front cover because you are beautiful? You do understand what I mean by beautiful?

What if you made the front page because you decided to be yourself instead of somebody else?

What if it was more “trendy” to be famous than infamous?

written by Earl Yarington @2019 all rights reserved

Canine Mindfulness

My very first post … pretty funny.

Silence and Sexuality

If I were a canine only,

I could live by olfactory

And smell my way to mindfulness.

I could sniff any crotch I like,

And bite anyone’s ass in spite.

I could slobber all over your beautiful face

And dry hump anyone in your private little space.

I could lick my privates in public,

then thrash your pretty toes

and go out and urinate, even in a school zone.

I can bark when I like,

Without disturbing the peace,

And you would always take me for walks,

Never being too busy for me.

I can devour that sweet pussy,

Cat, but no blame in that

Because old dogs will always be just like that.

So, if I were a canine,

I could live the American Dream

Without making a damn thing,

And no matter what
shape or color,

I would never be called a “stupid motherfucker.”

I can caress drunken…

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Girls and Hogs

Adobe Stock under license

Can sex be an addiction?

Can a hog be sexy,

And if a hog is so,

Can anything go?

A curve,

A bump,

A handle,

A cherry



Just before dawn?

Can sex be an addiction,

Then why do we punish it so?

Why is one dousing climaxing

Pleasure with pain a sicko?

I like chicks on bikes,

Girlish ones, with pigtails

Flaring out of hard-headed


Sleek and slight

Curvy bodies


A Piston-pumping


Vibrating every inch

Of her


The delicate but strong,

Taming Lusty Desire,

The danger

Caressing, vibrating just under

Her buttocks.

She strokes the throttle

And lets it explode

Down the road.

If sex be an addiction,

I gladly succumb to it

Only wishing to be a

Hog between some

Girlish driving legs,

Her tempting hands

On my trigger . . .


written by Earl Yarington @2019 all rights reserved

Counterfeits of Love

Words are lovers that never love;

Oblivious to the feelings they create;

For they may seem real and “tried and true”

Yet only in conveying a counterfeit

 In me and in you.

Words are lovers that words hold back,

The gatekeepers of freedom,

Enemy of passion,

Hater of too

Much Lust,

Desire, or

Any thought that is

Questionably undesired.

Words are a constricted construct

That conveys civil discourse

In spite of truth,

It’s no wonder why artists seek love

From an oft-void psychopathic troth.

Whose truth lies in the subjectivity

Of slathered-on lies

No matter how great the artist,

Artistic vision often dies

For meaning is felt in seeing

Because such love, fantasy,

Or whatever we achieve to see

Can never be

A syntax,

A code,

A signifier,

a handbook–

An ill-attempted imitation of me

And Thee,

Of destiny. 

written by Earl Yarington @2019 all rights reserved

The Billionaire Indian

Dedicated to Sherman Alexie

What if there was a billionaire Indian?

Nah, not India, an American Indian?

Would we have white-boy mascots

Surrounded by white-cracker artifact?

Would white dudes be encased

With their gun racks and pickup trucks

In National Museums

In honor of their or is it our traditions?

Would pizza, beer and wings replace

Frybread, beer, and fear

Of the outside,

Or is it the inside?

Would they work for nothing in the red-privilege casinos

selling cigarettes and boos to

All those blanket-white Yahoos?

Would Sherman Alexie be

Washington’s and the world’s

Poet Laureate?

Would they finally see the color of their own skin

And lighten ours to a friendlier shade of being seen?

Would they stop yelling at us for pointing out their offensiveness to us?

I’d think, I’d like that, a Native American Poet Laureate

A storyteller that can dream as much about Billionaire Indians

As a blonde girl dreams of unicorns. 

Nah, not a blonde girl, cute enough to sell stuff,

Or not some raging putrid hate syndrome consuming us

but a Native American

that’s truly one of U.S.

written by Earl Yarington @2019 all rights reserved